


Reading between the line "Peeta and I Grow Back Together"

by anminge



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games, The Hunger Games (Movies), The Hunger Games (Movies) RPF
Genre: F/M, Post-Book 3: Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anminge/pseuds/anminge
Summary: After her trial for assassinating President Coin, and after Peeta plants primrose in her backyard, Katniss realizes she misses Peeta and has to reach out to get back with him.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen & Mrs. Everdeen, Katniss Everdeen/Katniss & Peeta's Children/Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Kudos: 38





	Reading between the line "Peeta and I Grow Back Together"

**Author's Note:**

> I always felt like the line "Peeta and I grow back together" to be just a little too short. I was interested in how they came back together, how they grew. This piece between Katniss and Peeta just came to me, so I wrote it down. I hope you enjoy =) 
> 
> Peace and love

I haven't seen Peeta since I found him planting the primrose in my backyard. As I slowly come back to life, so does my realization of his absence. It must have been the way I ask for it that made Greasy Sae understand I was referencing Peeta's, because the next day the bread she brought me had little flowers on them, done by his hand.

Once Greasy Sae left, I remained alone in my house, once occupied by my sister, and my mom.

As I look around, it's like my memories come to life before me. I look at my fire place, and see my sister asking me to wait for her to try on wedding dresses. I look at my table, and see Gale lying there with his back bloody, my mother carefully tending to him. In my bed, I see Peeta holding me, as I fall asleep, nursing my broken ankle.

Peeta.

Even after he returned to District 12 a victor of the Hunger Games, his family never moved in with him. And after becoming a tribute for his second go, he never saw them again.

Empty. His house must be so empty of memories.

The bread he made was fresh this morning. How early did he wake up to bake it for me?

And when will I wake up to do something for him?

_"You could live a thousand life times and never deser_ _ve him."_

It feels like decades have past since I assassinated President Coin and Peeta prevented me from taking the nightlock. But, in reality, maybe it has been half a year of waiting for the end of my trial, and sitting alone in my house.

But it has been much longer than that since I have seen Peeta, my Peeta. The one that existed before the Capital got to him.

I hold my pearl, thinking of the Boy with the Bread, the boy who went into two Hunger Games with the sole agenda to protect me. And how did I treat him after he was hijacked? I gave up on him. Like he was dead. Like my Peeta was gone. And the whole time he was fighting, fighting to come back to me.

Of course, I may have had other things on my mind. Snow programming Peeta to be a muttation to murder me. President Coin putting him on my same mission to murder me, and of course being in a war, with random people trying to murder me. It was all difficult to navigate, but I could have been more kind.

Peeta was always the one with the words of our duo. How did I ever survive without him?

As I look at my pearl in my hand, and the locket on the table, something in my brain must have finally had the peace it needed to click.

No more Hunger Games. No more Snow. No more Coin. Just peace and quiet, that's all my brain needed to understand that not only could I never have survived without Peeta, I never will. And he feels the same.

We need each other.

I put my pearl safely in my pocket, and leave the locket in my room. Carrying around the faces of my loved ones is still a little too heavy at the moment.

I leave my house and cross the short distance to his, lessening the space between us.

I knock on his door, which feels oddly formal. But I don't want to come in unwelcome.

I know he would welcome me in, forgive me even. But that's not what I want. I don't want Peeta only thinking of keeping me alive. I want him to think of keeping _us_ alive. Together. A team. A unit. A couple.

But we need to air out some grievances for that to be reality.

Finally, the door opens, and I see his face. Not washed out by the summer sun when he was planting, but clear in the shade of the porch roof. He no longer looks like the scared boy whose name was called at the reaping. Two years of Hunger Games will do that to you. He even has some stubble on his face for the first time.

“Katniss,” he says.

And I am overwhelmed. I slowly approach him, and wrap my arms around his neck. He accepts my embrace, holding me, just like he did on our train rides, sturdy and with care.

With his arms around me tightly, I feel butterflies in my stomach. I've felt this feeling before: in the cave in our first Hunger Games, on the beach in our second. Without the intense feeling of starvation, or anxiety of life or death, like my brain, my stomach now has the peace needed to figure out how it feels.

We must have stood there silently holding each other for ten minutes. If I had it my way, I would never let go. The last time I did that, he was lost to me.

There are no tears. We are well past that in our embrace. The grounding of reality is the true release.

Eventually he invites me in and I realize I have never been inside his house. Of course, it looks identical to mine and Haymitch's in layout, but Peeta has given it his own personal touch.

His paintings. You can't go anywhere without seeing one of his paintings. Either hung on the wall, or placed on the floor. He has flowers and houseplants in each batch of sunlight. And his kitchen, of course, bares no resemblance. Effie or someone must have installed a large baker's oven for him. It looks like a little paradise.

But the most stark difference is the smell.

Unlike Haymitch's house, which reeks of vomit and trash and alcohol, or my house, which used to smell like my mother's herbs, and now must smell like my personal body oder, Peeta's house smells sweet, like fresh bread. The clean air from the open windows lifts the sent, evening out the temperature. The entire place is heavenly.

He shows me in, and offers me a seat at his kitchen table as he puts hot water on for tea. He lingers by the stove a little too long I think. Maybe he doesn't know what to say. That can't be right... Peeta always knows what to say.

Oh, dummy. You're the one who came to him!

I wait for him to bring over the tea pot and cups (after refusing my help of course) and then I'm the first to speak.

“Peeta... I'm.... I'm sorry.”

How pathetic! After he was tortured to near death after you abandoned him? After he went through two Hunger Games for you? After he protected your secrets to the entire country for you? The only thing you have to say is I'm sorry????

Peeta smirks a little and catches my eye. I let out a small laugh. He does too. He was always better at this than me.

“Do you want to start over?” He smiles at me.

“Yes, please."

And there he goes again, so gracious, so forgiving. Haymitch was right; I don't deserve him.

"Uh... Peeta, I... where do I even begin..."

"Katniss, I know what you're trying to do. It's not your fault."

I want to say he's wrong. That everything that's happened to him is my fault. It's my fault I separated from him in the Quarter Quell. It's my fault I acted so cold to him when he came to District 13.

But it's not my fault he was reaped. That was the Capital. And it's not my fault he was deployed back into action when he was still mentally disoriented. That was the Rebellion. So much suffering he has endured by the hands of powerful people who never cared about him. But what about what I did, someone who was supposed to protect him?

"I think it's time we figured out what is and isn't my fault. I think it's time I apologize. For everything."

"You don't have to. I told you once, I can't hold you to what you did in the Games to keep us alive and well, I think that still stands seeing as the Games lasted longer than we thought."

I know what he's talking about. The Capital watching us closely after our victory of the 74th Hunger Games. Our return to the arena for the 75th. And of course... the 76th. With no downtime in between...

"I don't want your forgiveness. Well I mean... if you want to but... Peeta, I just need you to know the truth, of where my head was, where my heart was. If we're gonna move forward I need you to know the truth, to actually know the truth-"

"We?"

"Well, of course, 'we', I-" And as I repeat it, I hear it myself. We. Us. Together. "Yes. We."

And all of a sudden, the table is too long, the distance between us too great, and the vastness of my mistakes come alive.

How do I explain to him that I've figured it out? I say my brain finally made a decision? That seems cold. That my stomach is now clear-headed? That's a little...crude and confusing.

I may still get nightmares. And still struggle with needed...assistance from morphling. I may still lay in bed for the whole day. I may still wander around aimlessly. But it's far better than it was. I actually answer my phone when my doctor calls. I bring back game when I go hunting. And when I eat, I can actually taste the food.

I may have so much more work to do, but I can't do it alone. Because the work is in front of me.

It's not a matter of Peeta's forgiveness. Of course, he'll forgive me. It's not a matter of his understanding. He's the only one who even could. It's all a matter of my explanation, and we all know I'm not very good at that.

I look down and realized I haven't even touched my tea.

"Peeta... you know I'm not very good at...uh..."

"Expressing your feelings through words?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

He smiles at me again but this time, our eyes meet. When was the last time I had Peeta's eyes look at me so clearly, so presently? I will never take this gaze for granted again.

"You don't have to, Katniss. Or at least... not right this second. We have all the time in the world you need to find the words."

And just like that, the last organ in my body had what it needed to make its decision: time.

Before, our days were numbered. The future itself seemed horrific, and gruesome. The act of marrying Peeta was a charade for protection from Snow, and the idea of a family and kids was filled with fear of hearing their named reaped themselves. Too many people wanted me dead. Too many people wanted to use my image. I had too many lives on my shoulders, too many lives I had taken to warrant any hope of a future. But now that Panem has entered a new era, my heart has made its decision.

And now I know how to explain myself to the Boy with the Bread.

I reach for his hand across the table. Of course, he accepts and takes mine in his. I use my thumb to caress his knuckles. I'm here. I'm present. I want to give back, I say with my touch. He squeezes my hand in return, accepting my affection.

I remember our first reaping. We shook hands, and he squeezed mine. He was always looking out for me, even in the beginning.

The beginning.

"I'll have to start from the beginning."

"I know," he says, already a million steps ahead of me, as always.

How did I ever get so lucky with someone like him? Deep down, he really is better than the rest of us. Truly empathetic, truly selfless.

He guides my hand up, and my body follows.

"Come on," he says. "I want to show you something."

He leads me upstairs, into a small study. The same room in my house that President Snow visited me in before our Victory Tour. But everything is different in Peeta's house, because it has his touch. He's turned the study into his own personal painting studio.

I want to look around and take all of it in, but I can't. My eyes are glued to the largest canvas in the center of the room. So clearly, so beautifully, in a way that could only have been done by his hand, rests a portrait of my late sister, dead, but encased in flowers.

I walk up to the canvas, meaning to touch her face but deciding not to. I don't want to smudge the perfection.

She looks so young, so innocent. But of course, by the time the bombs came, she had grown up so fast, a necessity of war. The flowers surrounding her body and laced in her hair like a crown, are primrose. The various colors radiate around her, lifting her from the canvas. She looks like how Rue did when I said goodbye. But the flowers she holds in her hands are different.

"Katniss," he says. I realize I never let go of his hand. Peeta stands next to me, never eyeing his work, but looking at my face. "She's holding katniss flowers."

Of course, she is, I think. The white flowers with the purple and yellow specs rest on her heart as she so delicately displays them.

"I know before you said you hated my work but, I've started taking a different approach."

He's right that the first time I saw his paintings I hated them. They were so real, too real, depicting the horrors of the first Games we experienced together. I saw the images enough in my own nightmares, to see them reflected on canvas was painful.

"Peeta, she's perfect."

And I turn back to him, wanting to give him a kiss. But do we do that now? I don't want him to think I only would because of Prim. So many kisses I have given him in the past with unclear intentions. I will not do that to him moving forward.

"There's more, if you want to see."

And as I turn around and the room illuminates. Finnick. Mags. Wiress. Rue. Even Clove, and Cato. Everyone radiates off his canvas like gorgeous angles, resting in peace.

I look back at Peeta, who of course has never taken his eyes off of me. And I am reminded of a time when he forgot he was a painter, forgot his ability to capture the most delicate of moments. When the Capital succeeded in turning him into something he's not. Yet, here my Peeta stands before me.

"You're painting again."

"Thanks to you."

And he rubs my knuckles with his hand. I want to tell him he wouldn't have forgotten how to paint if it wasn't for me in the first place, but somehow I sense that not going to go over very well.

I notice our bodies have gotten closer together, almost magnetically. I feel the urge to kiss him again, but am afraid it's not the right moment. Too many staged kisses on my part in our past, I don't want to send mixed signals. We've gone through so much trauma, the last thing either of us needs is more confusion or gas-lighting. We should take this slow.

"Maybe we could go for a walk?," I say, attempting to break our trance, "Haymitch might be getting up soon, and we could-"

And that's when he kisses me. His hand, so delicate against my neck, coaxing me towards him. And our lips, fitting together with such familiarity, as if they've never been apart. He drops my hand as his slowly slides up my waist to my lower back. Not only do I allow it, I pull him in closer. My one hand courses through his hair while the other grabs his shirt on his chest.

It's a kiss of firsts: the first time we kiss since he's had stubble, and the little hairs tickle my cheeks. The first time we kiss alone, with no audience of the Capital or our friends. And the first time we've kiss with no ulterior motives of survival.

Of course, it's electric. I think back to our very first kiss in the cave, my very first time kissing a boy. Nothing could have prepared me for kissing Peeta now, as he holds me and doesn't let go. There's no hunger, no starvation, no fear. Just electricity coursing through my entire body.

When he breaks away, we're holding each other so tightly, as if we were in a cramped little closet. His eyes scan my face, like he's still in utter shock to have me. He gives his classic Peeta smile, filled with charm and charisma. How that smile didn't win me over alone should have been my defense for mental disorientation.

"You wanted to kiss me, real or not real?"

Did the doctors give him the power to read my mind or something???

"Real," I whisper as I pull him in for more.

There's no one to stop us. No Gamemakers to worry about, no one to bust through the door. We're completely alone, completely free.

Our hands find one another, and we hold them between our bodies. Peeta's strong embrace still making me feel safe and secure.

From our moment with the bread, to our Hunger Games, to District 13, Peeta and I have always found each other again. When I look at him, it feels so inevitable. It was always me and Peeta. I could never have won those games without him, secured our sponsors, even lead a rebellion. A mockingjay needs a jabberyjay, a fire needs a spark, and I need Peeta.

I go in for more, but Peeta stops me. He doesn't let go, but he loosens his grip on me. My feet bring me back to reality.

"I still get flashes, you know. I'm better of course but... it might not be safe for you to be alone with me like this."

"Peeta, I'm not leaving you again."

"And I'm not gonna lay my hands on you again."

"Peeta, that wasn't you."

"Yes, it was. Maybe you should-"

I dig into my pocket and pull out my pearl.

"You never once gave up on me. And I'm not giving up on you. Peeta, it's always been you."

Peeta's gaze follows my hand, back up to my eyes. Did he know I kept it? Held on to it every day, hoping for his return? He cocks his all-knowing smirk.

"I heard something the other day... how did it go? That if you press coal hard enough it turns into a pearl. Coal-expert, Dr. Everdeen, is this fact real, or not real?"

"Real, Dr. Mellark. Actually, it's highly improbable, but I've seen two pieces of coal merge to make one pearl with my very own two eyes."

"You don't say? Well, in that case, we should keep this pearl very close. It's one of a kind."

He chuckles and gives me a quick little kiss.

"I don't know how you managed to keep that little thing all this time."

And I look at him shocked, confused. Because it's the most obvious explanation of all.

"You have no idea the effect you have on me," I tell him.

"Show me, then," he says.

And that's exactly what I plan to do.


End file.
